


An Honest Performance

by penguistifical



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, little bit of Jaskier's thoughts, some bantering and some smooches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:34:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22313338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penguistifical/pseuds/penguistifical
Summary: Jaskier insists that he can be quiet, if he wants to be. Geralt takes this as a challenge.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 569





	An Honest Performance

**Author's Note:**

> getting into some different territory than what I normally write, and it's fun
> 
> also, some of it is cute, because, eh, I'm soft

  
It’s not that Jaskier finds forbidden fruit to be the sweetest, it’s just that, well, consequences are something that happen later. Impulsivity brings adventure and inspiration. The moment is something to be savored.

Not, however, this moment, which consists of Geralt firmly stating (restating) that this time, so help them both, Jaskier is to behave when they are in town. 

“I need to stay in Novigrad for at least four days, bard. I’m meeting an important contact. If you get yourself into trouble, you’ll be getting yourself out. Do you hear?”

Jaskier, strolling sedately next to Roach, looks up to give Geralt his best ‘who, me?’ look and says “Yes, we’re meeting an important contact.” His lute’s in his hands, of course, to keep the travel from stretching on endlessly. He tries a few experimental chords, and makes a face. A sour melody.

“No, Jaskier. Not ‘we.’ I am meeting them. And the part that you should have heard was before that, about not sleeping with anyone’s betrothed, or anyone sworn to the Eternal Fire. Go to the Passiflora if you need company.”

The bard grins. “Oh, I’ve heard about brothels and the ‘eternal fire’ that one can catch th-”

“Jaskier.” 

The musician throws up his hands in mock indignation. “Yes, fine, I hear. I only look forward to a bath and real meal in a fine room with a roof.” He slants Geralt a look. “It’s not as if we were thrown out of the last town.”

“‘You’, not ‘we’, could have been thrown out.”

Jaskier swallows his ready protest in absolute disbelief as the witcher continues with “And it’s a wonder we weren’t, seeing as how you can’t keep yourself from yowling like a cat in heat whenever you’re fucking someone.” 

“I, uh. Well.” Jaskier catches himself strumming the same two notes in sequence which comes out as about the musical equivalent of stammering, before recovering.

“So you listen at doors to couples in rooms-for-rent in taverns. Whoever would have thought that the White Wolf had such, well, naughty inclinations.”

Geralt slides off of Roach, to walk beside him. He _is_ feeling serious.

“No, Jaskier, I heard you from the floor below.”  
  
Jaskier has seen the witcher’s strange senses, has watched him seem to taste the air for the vaguest of scents and find what he’s seeking, watched him gaze keenly into impenetrable shadows with a panther’s predatory gaze. He has no reason to doubt that Geralt’s hearing isn’t equally impressive, save for, perhaps, his lack of appreciation for quality music.

It’s probably true, then, that he heard the, ah, activity, through the floor.

“What can I say?” Jaskier shrugs, wondering what else Geralt has heard, in his time. It’d make for a fine song. Something comedic, probably. “I’m sorry that the sounds of her delight may have disturbed your dinner, but I simply have a way with words and a way with my-”

“You. I heard you, not her.”

“Well...then I’m sorry the sounds of _my_ delight disturbed your dinner, I suppose.”

“You didn’t sound so delighted.” Geralt drawls, and Jaskier wonders at which point he lost all control of this conversation. “Only loud.”

“Listen, sometimes you want to make someone feel appreciated. It’s fine to put on a show.”

Geralt frowns. “I don’t consider sleeping with people to be a performance.”

Everything’s a performance, but he doesn’t expect Geralt to understand. A crowd is something to be played like, well, an instrument. It’s a pity he had to meet Geralt with such an unreceptive bunch. Hearing his compositions hummed, seeing the pleasure on a listener’s face, it’s like having all his senses doused in hot mulled wine. It’s wonderful.   
Who knows what applause a witcher expects - though if Jaskier has his way, this particular witcher will be getting considerably more, and soon. Once his songs travel, that is.

But that's too much to say, right now, in this mood. Jaskier simply shrugs, and says “People like it when I make noise for them, whether it's in a tavern, or in a bed. It’s my charm. It doesn’t matter if I’m pleasing a crowd or pleasuring an audience of one - anybody would enjoy it.”

“I wouldn’t.” Geralt says, flatly.

“You may tell yourself that to explain why your lovers are silent in return.” Annoyed at the way their talk has gone, Jaskier mulishly adds “And if you wouldn’t want someone to feign noises for you, you’ll have to deal with the awkward silence in bed, witcher. But, you do tell me to be quiet, often enough, perhaps that’s what you want from a partner.”

That was probably too much, and Jaskier regrets it, just a bit, after saying it.  
  
He attempts to play to fill the silence but is stopped by Geralt’s hand closing around the fingerboard, preventing any notes. He looks up to glare at him and falters when he finds that intent panther gaze fixed on him. Jaskier meets it, not sure what mood he’s put Geralt in, but game to play. 

He watches, feeling a fluttering in his stomach that’s hard to put a name to, as Geralt steps back and finds a low hanging branch that he fixes Roach to, before coming back over.

It’s been quite a while since Geralt punched him in the stomach, and he doesn’t think that’s what’s about to happen now, but he takes off his lute and lays it down with the greatest of care. Just in case.

“We’re stopping here, then, for a bit? I thought we needed to get to town?”

Geralt gives him a long look, and then puts a hand under his chin, lifting his face up. 

Ah, that’s how it is. Geralt feels that he's been challenged, he wants to show Jaskier that he can get him to be noisy. Finally. For a man possessed of such enhanced senses, Geralt can be so thick sometimes. Jaskier’s wanted to see what a kiss from the witcher would be like for some time now.

But Geralt hesitates, looking him over, and says, “Is this all right?”

Jaskier clamps his lips shut and makes a point of showing Geralt this, that he won’t be tricked into making noise.

Geralt rolls his eyes. “No, that’s not, fine. Just nod if this is all right.”

Jaskier gives him a slow deliberate nod and raises his head up for a kiss. 

Instead, Geralt turns him around so that he’s resting against his chest with his arm around Jaskier’s front, holding him in place. Jaskier pushes against Geralt’s arm a little and grins when the witcher’s grip tightens around him. 

Geralt roughly runs a hand through Jaskier’s hair before tilting his head slightly so that Jaskier’s cheek is resting on his palm. He shifts from foot to foot in the witcher’s hold, unable to keep himself still as Geralt brings his lips to his upturned face and murmurs “Jaskier,” directly into his ear.

Geralt breathes in deeply - scenting him? - and exhales, the hot breath against his ear making him shiver, unable to move away and thrilled to be held in place.

“What do I smell like? Ah, fuck.”

Geralt chuckles against his ear, the hot ticklish sensation making him squirm.   
  
“That was nothing,” Jaskier insists, settling his face back down comfortably into Geralt’s palm, and relaxing against him. “I could easily have said nothing. I just wanted to know.”

“Bad.”

“....What?”

“You smell bad,” Geralt clarifies, and then keeps Jaskier in place as the bard tries to turn to look at him, indignant.

“Excuse you!"

“You smell like someone who has been traveling,” Geralt mollifies, fingers tracing gentle circles on Jaskier’s cheek. “Those who brush shoulders with beasts rarely arise smelling of roses.”

Jaskier would probably be more annoyed if he didn’t like so much how it felt for Geralt to stroke his face and run his fingers through his hair. “That was a bit poetic. But yes, I just wanted to know. Continue.”  
  
“Mm.” Jaskier chooses to ignore the amount of amusement packed into one syllable that isn't even a word.

Geralt begins again, running his fingertips over Jaskier’s face, exploring the shape of it. He brushes his thumb lightly over Jaskier’s lips, before bringing his hand lower down to trace small circles on his chest. He lingers on the patch of skin where Jaskier’s collar opens, but dips his fingertips underneath the chemise, lightly rubbing his shoulders, causing Jaskier to rock back into his chest as he pushes the bard against him.  
  
Jaskier has seen this man literally snap the bones of monsters he’s hunting.

Having Geralt run his hands over him as if he’s something precious has his toes curling. He leans his head back against Geralt’s chest, and closes his eyes.

The witcher continues moving his hands over Jaskier’s chest, varying whisper silk touches with a firmer pressure, and Jaskier cannot help the quiet murmurs that escape him every time Geralt presses his fingers into his skin. He’s beginning to feel a bit boneless.

“Actually,” breathes Geralt, directly into his ear again, damn him, “when it comes to your scent, if I were seeking you, it’d be far easier to do by sound.”

Geralt tilts his head up again, and begins running his lips lightly over Jaskier’s face, over his cheek, and down to his neck, where he plants a warm kiss over Jaskier’s fluttering pulse.

“But, lately,” Geralt pauses to press a line of kisses along Jaskier’s jawline, dragging his stubble along the skin after, and Jaskier bites his lip. “Lately, if I had to track you that way, it’d be far easier than when we first met.”  
  
_Because you know what I smell like, now?_ Jaskier thinks, but remembers not to ask, and gasps as Geralt runs his tongue over the rim of his ear, before trailing his lips down to the side of his neck, and pulling down the chemise to uncover a bit more skin.

“Because I can smell myself on you. And I like that far more than I would any of your feigned moans.”

And with that, Geralt begins a string of bites just above Jaskier’s collarbone, pausing after each to give each rising red mark a quick kiss.

Jaskier hears himself making a small noise after each bite, and he hasn’t heard himself sound like this before: quiet, breathy, desperate, as Geralt wrings sounds out of him just as easily as the bard plays chords from his lute.

Just as he’s thinking this, Geralt moves the shoulder of his shirt aside and bites down just where the strap of his instrument would sit, where he’ll feel it whenever he’s performing, and Jaskier moans.

He realizes he’s grinding back against Geralt when the witcher suddenly stops his kisses, spins him around, and smiles. He looks entirely too fucking satisfied.

“So,” he says, and Jaskier waits to hear ‘I win.’

“So, as pleasant as this is, I do need to hear from you that you want to go further, before we do.”

“You want me to beg?” Jaskier asks, a little too disheveled to make that sound indignant and not hopeful. 

“I want nothing that’s not an honest response. And I mean, if you want to sleep together, we can’t go into that with a game of not speaking.”

“I want you.” Jaskier says, and gapes when Geralt swings back towards Roach.

“Good. We’ll be in Novigrad shortly.”

Awful man.

Jaskier explores the bites with his fingertips. It was thoughtful of Geralt to put them where they’ll be covered up by his shirt, but he hopes that wherever they’re heading has a mirror so that he can admire the marks.

“Geralt, about what you said,” he calls, as he picks up his lute and hurries after. Geralt waits, both for him to catch up and continue speaking.  
  
“I wouldn’t want you to touch me if I smell bad, like you said.” Jaskier quickly holds his hands up, placating, as Geralt gestures in sarcastic supplication. “Perhaps we might...take a bath?”

“I’d like to give you a bath, yes.”

That’s not quite what he’d meant, but Geralt looks very pleased at the idea, and he’d be lying if he says the thought of letting Geralt take care of him for an evening didn’t make him feel pleasantly fluttery again.

Jaskier has spent a lot of his time pleasing others. Such is the life of a bard courting an audience. But it also means he hasn’t spent a lot of time, well, being attended to.

Wouldn’t it be fun to try?


End file.
